A Key Round His Neck
by yorozuyagaren
Summary: Remember the key that Spot always wears around his neck? Remember the woman who was looking for her son Patrick? Ever wonder if there's a connection? Rated for swearing, nothing icky here.
1. Chapter 1: Bother Brooklyn Day

Chapter 1: Bother Brooklyn Day

"You're in the pape, Spot," Jack Kelly announced, slamming the last of the morning edition into his friend's hands and sticking his own into his pockets. "Check it out." The heat of August had driven the seventeen year old to forgo his usual vest and cowboy hat ensemble in favour of an undershirt and trousers.

The friend, a smallish boy who referred to himself as Spot Conlon, was taken aback, something that happened rarely. "Whoa, I ain't seen this," he said. He started rifling through the paper the older boy had brought. _Thought I'd read the whole thing. Must've missed it._

"Right there on page eight, 'Mrs. Margaret Conlon Searching For Son Patrick. Small for fourteen, light blue eyes and light brown hair, face like an angel. If you see him, send woid to Mrs. Margaret Conlon, his mother.' " Jack read. "The address is someplace near the Park. Never figured you for respectable, Brooklyn."

_They put an article in the paper. They must really want me back._

"Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Spot. "You came all the way from Manhattan just to show me this?"

"Figured it was funny," Jack answered. "You ain't exactly angelic, though..."

"And my name's not Patrick," Spot finished for him. _Not anymore anyway._ "And that's all we're gonna hear about the matter." He placed a hand on the gold-topped cane stuck through the end of his suspenders as if making sure it was still there.

_Well, no sense cryin' over it. Not likely anyone'll even see it, tucked in the back like it is. And there's tons of kids my age with brown hair and blue eyes._

Spot's dismissal ended the conversation, and Jack Kelly turned around to go back to Manhattan.

* * *

Standing in front of a four-story brownstone, Spot wondered, for the fourth time that afternoon, what he was doing in Manhattan. He had responsibilities back on the other side of the bridge after all. The leader of the Brooklyn newsies can't just up and leave whenever he feels like it. 

_Wonder if they know I'm out here... Maybe I should ring the bell, just for kicks._

"Hey Brooklyn, what's that key you got around your neck?"

Spot turned around, exasperated. Bad enough that he couldn't get that article and all it entailed out of his mind, but now this...

"What is this, Bother Brooklyn Day?" he asked the small person in front of him. God, what was this kid's name? David's kid brother... Les, that was it.

"No," Les said, shrinking back a bit. "I-it's just I've been wondering about it ever since I first saw you, and Snipeshooter said I should go ahead an' ask."

"Well, you tell Snipeshooter that he can mind his own damn business."

"Are you angry cuz of that article on page eight?"

_Am I the only person in New York who didn't see this thing?_ "No, I ain't angry about no article on page eight, so cheese it."

Les "cheesed it" as fast as he could, running off towards downtown. Spot was used to people being scared of him. The name Spot Conlon was a big one among newsies, mostly out of fear. _One of the biggest things about fighting your way to the top: everybody knows you._

_Damn key. Why can't I just throw it away._

_Cuz Dad made it special, just in case you ever decided to come back._

Spot wandered over to Greeley Square, absently fingering the object of Les' questioning, a moderately-sized metal key on a shoe string around his neck. He'd gotten it from his brother the day after he'd left home, along with an ignored plea to "come back for pie sometimes".

_Shouldn't have bothered going to the schoolyard that day. Don't quite understand why I did._

Horace Greeley's statue looked serenely over its domain, a lively little park with a few trees and benches. The park doubled as a hang-out for the members of the Manhattan newsies union, now celebrating one month of existence. One or two members of said organization waved to Spot as he wandered the tiny area.

"Hey Patrick, you goin' home to Park Avenue?" Mush shouted, running up. He laughed at his own joke and thumped Spot on the back.

Spot's reply was to mutter "You wish," at the joker and spin around, marching back towards the bridge and his own territory.

* * *

Back in Brooklyn, Spot searched out his second-in-command, an eccentric redheaded boy referred to as Whistler, due to his habit of whistling almost constantly. Whistler was also known for his affinity for the color green, and for telling stories about fairies and magic to whoever would listen. 

Spot found him near the docks, surrounded by a group of youngsters, none of them older than ten. He was telling them a story.

"So then, the boy said 'How will I find the spot again?'" Whistler said, drawing pictures in the air with his hands. "And the fairy said 'Tell you what, I'll let you tie a ribbon around this here stalk, so you'll know which 'tis.' So the boy tied a ribbon 'round the stalk with the gold under it, and went for a shovel. But when he got back, he saw that the fairy had tied ribbons 'round every single stalk in the field, and disappeared." Whistler's audience clapped politely, then quieted as the older boy waved his hand. "So if you ever meet a fairy," he concluded with a grin. "Make sure you keep it with you while you're goin' for the shovel."

Spot shook his head, clearing it. He'd been so entranced by the story that he'd forgotten all about his current difficulties. Whistler's stories did that sometimes, he'd noticed, though the euphoria never lasted long. Dodging the dispersing crowd, he went up to the storyteller.

"Hey Whistler, anything happen while I was gone?" he asked.

"Nothin' worth talkin' about," Whistler replied. He took off his cap and ran his fingers through the long red mop that fell out of it. "There was some talk of knockin' you out and takin' you over to one Margaret Conlon of Park Avenue, but I put a stop to it. Pointed out that you were more devil than angel, so the description couldn't fit."

"Thanks, Wiss." Spot could never be certain whether Whistler was joking or not. Although in this case, he probably was. The head of the Brooklyn Newsies was too well-respected for such uncharitable attempts.

"Just remember what I told you about callin' me 'Wiss', Spot," Whistler pointed out, putting his cap back on and tucking his hair carefully into it. "I seem to recall something about mutiny."

Spot narrowed his eyes. "You wouldn't."

Whistler tilted his head to look at Spot sideways. "You willing to bet on that?" He then proceeded to laugh hysterically as if Spot had suddenly grown an extra head. The more sober of the two shook his head in disgust and started walking away, wondering—not for the first time—why he kept Whistler as second in command.

_Because he could beat me to a bloody pulp if he wanted to, and keeping him as second is better than giving up power altogether._

Whistler may have been crazy, but he was also strong, freakishly strong. Spot could never figure out how such a little guy could be so good in a fight. But he was, and so Spot kept him on. Thank whoever was listening that Whistler wasn't interested in anything other than fairies, beer, and the occasional showgirl. The kid didn't even smoke, for cryin' out loud!

But enough about Whistler. This story is about Spot.

Spot meandered through his territory, checking to make sure everything was in order. It was, for the most part, except for a newsboy who was taking a short break to harrass a young flowerseller. Spot put a quick end to the girl's plight by punching the other boy in the face. The justice of Brooklyn was swift.


	2. Chapter 2: Patrick

Chapter 2: Patrick

Mrs. Margaret Conlon woke early. She had to, if she wanted to make breakfast for her family and still be on time to catch the newsies on their way to the newspaper office, checking each face to see if one of them was her son Patrick, as she had done every morning for five years.

"Mama?" came a small, timid voice from the other room. A girl of about five or so came out into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes with one hand and clutching a rag doll with the other. "Mama? Can I come with you to look for Patrick today?"

Mrs. Conlon put the pot she'd been holding down on the black cast iron stove and considered the request. Emily had never met Patrick, having been born a few months after the boy ran away from home. She had been more or less raised by Michael, her older brother by fourteen years, as her mother spent every waking minute not providing for her family out in the streets looking for her missing child.

"I suppose I don't see why not," Mrs. Conlon replied. Emily's face broke into a bright smile. "But only for a little while, and you have to wear your good coat. You don't want to look messy for your first meeting with your older brother." The smile dimmed a bit, but stayed in place as Emily rushed forward to hug her mother's knees.

"Perhaps you'll be my good luck charm and we'll find him together."

* * *

A little later in the morning, Spot was trying desperately to sell papers with the headline "Drought Continues in the Southwest". It wasn't going well, and he was thinking about turning in for the day when Whistler showed up. He was empty handed. 

"And just what did you do with your papes, Whistler?" Spot asked, somewhat exasperated that Whistler had sold out before him.

"Sold 'em," the redhead said with a grin. "Made up some crazy shit about fairies in Central Park, then told 'em to pay extra for the 'special edition' pape that didn't have the story." The grin widened as he pulled out a silver fifty cent piece. "Bunch of 'em fell for it, too."

Spot gaped at the fifty cent piece and wondered at Whistler's luck and ingenuity. _This kid, you'd think he was some kind of psychic or somethin'_, he thought to himself.

"You didn't come here just to show off, did you?" Spot asked.

Whistler shook his head, a few locks of hair escaping from his cap and tumbling down his back. "Nope, came to tell ya that there's some dame askin' for a kid named Patrick. She's up the street, waitin'." His face was suddenly serious. "It's your mum, Spot. You look just like her. She's got a little kid with her—"

But Spot was gone.

"Eh, figured he'd be interested," Whistler said, shaking his hair out and replacing his cap. No sense trying to pretend the stuff wasn't there, after all.

* * *

Spot literally flew down the street, dropping a few of his papers in the process. He wasn't sure why he was in such a hurry to see the woman he'd run away from five years before, but for some reason, it had suddenly become very important. So important, in fact, that he couldn't just run up and crash into her like he was about to do if he kept running. 

He skidded to a stop, looking around to make sure no one had seen him almost fall over, straightening his papers. There she was, a few yards away, looking almost exactly the same as she had when she'd kissed him goodnight for the last time, not realizing he'd be gone in the morning. But there was something different.

_Wait a minnit, who's the kid?_

Having bolted when Whistler mentioned his mother, Spot hadn't heard the other boy mention the small child with her. The "kid" was a girl, about five years old, wearing a dainty little pink coat that—by the way she was fidgeting—must have been horribly uncomfortable. Spot watched as she waited somewhat impatiently for her mother to finish talking to a friend, wondering why she looked so familiar. Then it hit.

_Dammit Spot, are you fergettin' why you ran away in the first place?_

Because he'd been about to be replaced. By a new kid. A baby.

Suddenly he didn't want to talk to his mother as much.

"She sure does look like you, eh?" came a voice from behind him. He turned to see Whistler, calmly standing two feet away. Spot hadn't even heard the other boy coming.

"Dammit, Wiss," he said, recovering from the shock. "You know I hate it when you sneaks up on me."

"Just like I hate it when you call me 'Wiss'. What goes around comes around, y'know," Whistler said with his usual grin. "You really oughtta talk to her. Give her a free pape or somethin'."

Now there was an idea. He was a newsboy, wasn't he?

Spot ducked into a nearby alleyway and smudged some dirt on his face, then pulled his cap low over his eyes. Thus disguised, he went up to his mother.

"Buy a pape, ma'am?" he said, pitching his voice higher to sound younger.

* * *

Mrs. Conlon had grown tired of waiting. The young man with the green cap had disappeared, promising to bring Patrick to her, but thus far he hadn't reappeared. 

"Buy a pape, ma'am?" It was a newsboy, dirtier than most, holding a newspaper out to her.

"No thank you, I'm waiting for someone," Mrs. Conlon replied. _Hold on a moment. I know that voice._ She took a closer look at the newsboy's face, mentally stripping away the grime.

"Patrick?"

The boy looked terrified, then dropped his papers and ran.


	3. Chapter 3: Emily

Eep, this one's even shorter. Eh, it was just the perfect spot to end it though.

This story is officially dedicated to NewsieGoil1899. Because she's cool.

* * *

Chapter 3: Emily 

Halfway across the bridge, Spot stopped running. He wasn't sure why until he noticed Whistler sitting fifteen feet off the road, perched in the cross-bracing of the bridge.

"Goin' somewhere?" he asked Spot.

"How the hell did you get up there?"

Whistler grinned. If he'd been on the ground, Spot would have punched him in the face.

"Climbed," he said simply. "I sit up here sometimes when I'm thinkin'."

Whistler thinking… for some reason the thought was frightening.

"Anyway, I been thinkin' that it's time you turned around and marched back there to explain to that little girl why she never met her big brother."

"Damn you," Spot said, then turned on his heel and started back the way he'd just come.

* * *

"Was that him, Mama? Was that him?" Emily asked, tugging on her mother's skirt. 

"Yes, it was, Emmy. You must be my good luck charm."

"But why did he run away?"

Mrs. Conlon sighed. "I don't know, dear. I don't know."

Just then, the boy was back, skidding to a stop and falling in a heap at his mother's feet. Mrs. Conlon winced, then helped him up.

"Thanks, ma'am," the boy said, adjusting his cap.

"Don't call me that, Patrick. I'm your mother."

The boy looked almost afraid for a bit, and would have bolted if another boy, the one with the green cap, hadn't suddenly appeared.

* * *

"Spot, you never cease to amaze me," Whistler said, holding onto Spot's arm to keep him from getting away. 

"I ain't even going to ask how you got here so fast," Spot growled. "Now leggo o' me before I soak ya."

Mrs. Conlon watched the proceedings with alarm, clutching Emily's hand as if to protect her.

"Please don't fight, boys," she pleaded. "I just wanted to see my son."

The two seemingly ignored her, Spot throwing a punch at Whistler, who dodged it, never loosening his hold on the younger boy's arm. Then, too quick for anyone to see, Whistler's left fist slammed into Spot's gut, knocking the wind out of him.

"Sorry 'bout this," he told Spot, handing the dazed boy over to Mrs. Conlon. "But it's for your own good." Then to Mrs. Conlon: "You kin have him for a day or two, but we sorta need him back after that. Your son's a pretty important man now, Mrs. Conlon."

She nodded.

"Do you need any help getting him home?"

"No, I think I'll be okay," Mrs. Conlon said. "Come along, Emily."

* * *

Spot woke up in a bed. It wasn't his bed in the lodging house, and for a few moments he couldn't figure out where he was. Then a small voice spoke. 

"Patrick!" it said. The happenings of the past two days came slamming back into Spot's head—the article in the paper, finding his mother, and Whistler's betrayal.

_Dammit Wiss, when I get hold of you…_

But that would have to wait, because the small girl who was apparently his sister was currently climbing onto the bed and trying to sit on his chest.

"Oof," he grunted as her weight squashed the air out of his lungs. "Geddoffame, ya shrimp." The girl all but fell off the bed and rushed out of the room, howling for her mother. Mrs. Conlon came into the room.

"What did you say to Emily?" she asked. "She seems upset."

Belatedly, Spot realized that his usual rough manners wouldn't fly in his new situation. He'd have to be nice to the kid.

Then Mrs. Conlon proceeded to say the one phrase that would haunt Spot's dreams for the rest of his life.

"I need to go to the market. Will you watch Emily for me?"

Spot said the only thing he could say, not knowing when he'd be able to go back to the lodging house.

"Sure."


	4. Chapter 4: Milk and Fairies

Sorry it took so long to update. I have the worst luck in the world. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and I hope you enjoy the next chapter.

* * *

Chapter 4: Milk and Fairies 

Five minutes passed. Emily looked at Spot. Spot looked at Emily. Emily stretched and yawned. Spot tapped his fingers on the table. So it went on for another five minutes. Eventually, Emily got bored.

"Patrick, I'm bored," she said.

"Whaddaya want me to do about it?" Spot asked irritably.

"Tell me a story."

_A story?_ Spot thought. _What the hell does she think I am? The King of Brooklyn don't tell stories._

"Please?" Emily begged.

_But his second-in-command does._

"Come on, kid," Spot said, grabbing Emily's arm. "We're gonna go visit somebody."

* * *

Whistler had woken up late that morning. It was his biggest flaw, the inability to function well at an early hour, and without Spot to make sure he was up, he'd slept in, arriving at the circulation office just as the last paper was sold to a fourteen-year-old newsie named Skipper. Whistler considered soaking him, both to get rid of his bad mood and to get some free papers, but decided it wasn't worth the trouble. Spot didn't like his newsies fighting among themselves. 

"Well, looks like I got the rest a' the day off," Whistler muttered. "Might as well go over to 'Hattan, see how Spot's doin'."

The walk over to Manhattan was decidedly boring. Whistler lived up to his name, livening it up by whistling a Scottish ballad entitled "Four Stone Walls".

_"If it kills, Iwill surround myself with four stone walls. A little pride up on the shelf, and four stone walls around me,"_ he sang. He tried searching his mind for the next verse, but came up with nothing.

"Eh, whatever," he muttered. Whistler began listing the songs that he knew, trying to find someting to whistle. He came up with another Scottish ballad, this one in Gaelic.

Half way through the second verse, he heard someone calling his name. There, a few yards away was Spot, with his little sister tagging along, clutching his hand.

"Whatcha doin' here,Spot?" Whistler shouted.

"Dammit, you should know," Spot said with a scowl. "Thanks to you, I'm stuck baby-sitting for this kid, and I ain't got the slightest idea what to do with her."

"Did you try telling her a story? Kids like stories."

Emily let go of Spot's hand and trotted over to Whistler. "Will you tell me a story?" she asked.

"Sure," said Whistler. "But let's find someplace to sit down."

"You can come to our house!" Emily said.

Spot looked awkward. "Is that alright with you, Whistler?"

"Sure, why not?" Whistler replied. "I've often wondered what kind of place you came from."

Spot raised an eyebrow. "That's a little disturbing."

"So's your affinity for bathing."

"Story! Story!" cried Emily. She grabbed Whistler's hand and started dragging him in the direction of the four story brownstone.

* * *

Five minutes later, the three young people were sitting at the kitchen table, nursing glasses of milk. Whistler took a large gulp, set down his glass, and frowned. Then he started to speak. 

"Jamie Freel lived with his mother," he began. "She was a widow, and Jamie was her only family and support. They were poor, but thanks to Jamie they always had enough to eat. One night, on Samhain, Jamie put on his cap and said to his mother 'Weel, I'm off to the old ruinedcastle to seek me fortune.' His mother cried and begged him not to go, because the old castle was where the fairies had their parties every year on Samhain.

"But Jamie said he'd go anyway, and his mother didn't stop him.

"So he crossed the pratie patch, and went through the woods, and soon enough he was at the old ruined castle. He could see light through the windows and there was music playing, strange wild music the sort that only the fairies know how to play. He went inside, and all the fairy folk welcomed him, sayin' 'Jamie Freel! Jamie Freel! We're off to Dublin to steal a young lady! Will you come with us?' Jamie said he would, and off they went, flyin' through the sky like birds with their magic.

"Then they were flyin' over Dublin Town, and they stopped in by the window of a big fine house. Jamie could see the lady they meant to steal, asleep in her bed, and he fell in love with her. Anyway, the fairies opened the window, and carried the young lady out, and put a stick of wood inher place that they enchanted to look just like her.Then off they went back to Donegal, laughin' and cheerin' at the trick they'd played. Aftera while, Jamie said 'Say, you all had your turns, let me carry her for a while.' The fairies said 'Sure, an' why not', but the second that Jamie had the young lady in his arms, he sprinted back through the woods, and across the pratie patch, and back home to his mother. But in the distance, he heard a fairy yell 'Much good she'll do ye, Jamie Freel! I curse her to be deaf and dumb!'"

"But why?" asked Emily.

"Because he'd lied to them," Whistler explained, and went on. "So Jamie brought the young lady home to his mother, and the old widow cried, because she couldn't bear the thought of the nice young lady living in poverty with them. But the lady never complained or seemed unhappy. She lived with them for a whole year, and Jamie worked for them both. Then, the next year on Samhain, Jamie put on his cap said to his mother 'Weel, I'm off to the old ruined castle again, to see what I'll see.' And his mother said 'No, Jamie, don't go, they'll kill you for trickin' them,' But Jamie went anyway.

"The castle was full of light an' music an' dancing fairies, just like the year before. But Jamie didn't go inside right away. He waited by the door, an' over heard two fairies talkin'. 'That Jamie Freel put a trick on us last year, and got that young lady from us,' one said. 'But there she sits at his hearth, deaf an' dumb, when a drop of this liquor in my glass would give her back her hearin' an' her speech.' Well, when Jamie heard that, he jumped up, grabbed the glass and ran back through the woods, across the pratie patch, an' home to his little house where his mother an' the young lady waited. He gave her the glass, an' she drank the one drop that had survived the mad dash across the pratie field, an' thanked Jamie for savin' her from the fairies, and could he please take her back to Dublin to her family?

"Well, Jamie couldn't say no, because he'd fallen in love with her, so him an' his mother packed up and went to Dublin on the next train. They went up to the house, an' knocked on the door. The lady of the house answered--"

"But ladies don't answer their own doors," Emily interrupted.

"In this story they do," Whistler told her. "The lady of the house answered, and the young lady said 'Mammie, don't you remember me?' The lady said 'Sure, an' don't you look like my Gracie who's been dead near on a whole year.' The young lady says 'But I am Gracie, see this mole?' An' sure enough, the young lady was Gracie because of the mole on her neck. Her father came to the door, an' thanked Jamie for bringin' his daughter back, and was there anythin' he wanted? Jamie said 'Weel, over the year that Gracie's been livin' with us, I fallen in love with her,' An' Gracie's father said, 'Then you'll be married, an' you'll be my heir.' An' they all lived happily ever after."

Here Whistler took another sip of milk and looked around. Spot appeared to havefallen asleep, but Emily was staring up at him expectantly.

"Is that the end?" she asked. Whistler nodded. Emily looked sad. "I liked it, but it didn't have a princess in it. I want a story with a princess in it."

"Well, next time I come to visit, I'll tell you a story with a princess in it," Whistler promised. "But I think you should wake up your brother."


	5. Chapter 5: Whistler

Sorry 'bout the delay, people. This may or may not be the end for A Key Round His Neck, it all depends on whether I can come up with more plot ideas. Thank you all for your reviews, and for sticking with this even though I don't really know what the hell I'm doing.

* * *

Chapter 5: Whistler 

Spot hadn't been sleeping. Sure, he had closed his eyes, but only so he wouldn't have to look at his second-in-command happily taking control where he hadn't been able to. He didn't like being outdone, particularly not by someone who had recently betrayed him.

Although looking at Whistler, he certainly didn't seem to show any signs of remorse. And that hurt Spot more than ever.

Eventually Mrs. Conlon came home. Emily had been fed and put to bed by Whistler, while Spot had cleaned up the kitchen, grumbling the entire time.

"And who's this?" she asked as she came in the door to Spot's room, finding Whistler and Spot playing Nine Man's Morris with Mr. Conlon's checkers set and a chalk-and-paper board.

"I'm Whistler, Spot—er, Patrick's second-in-command," Whistler explained as he moved a piece. Spot fumed as the redheaded boy removed one of his superior's pieces, adding it to the pile beside him.

"Remind me why I agreed to play this game," Spot muttered.

"Because you won't admit that you can't beat me at it," Whistler returned. Spot cursed, forgetting his mother's presence.

"Patrick!" she said. Spot paled. "I won't have you using that sort of language."

"Sorry, mother," Spot muttered. Mrs. Conlon's face lit up at the new form address.

"What did you three have for dinner?" she asked.

"Whistler made pancakes."

For some reason this came as a shock to Mrs. Conlon. Whistler spoke up.

"I'm actually a decent cook, ma'am," he said. "Jus' don' get much practice."

"Well, thank you very much, Whistler," said Mrs. Conlon. "It's getting late, isn't it? Shouldn't you be going home?"

"It's an awful long walk over the bridge, an' none too safe in the dark," Spot pointed out. Whistler nodded. All sorts of crazies were known to frequent the bridge after night fell. "I wuz figgerin' he'd stay over tonight an' go back in the mornin'. He kin stay in the guestroom, right?"

Mrs. Conlon nodded, noting the grin that formed on Whistler's face. Much as she didn't like her son consorting with such people, her maternal instinct refused to let a young boy go into danger, even if he was a street rat. And she could always lock the guestroom door after he'd fallen asleep, just in case…

* * *

"You _what?_!" Spot yelled as soon as his mother had come into his room. 

"I don't trust him," Mrs. Conlon said stubbornly. "He's no better than a street rat, and probably a thief besides."

"If he is, it's nobody's business but his," Spot fumed. "'Sides, he's my flippin' _second_. He wouldn't rob me or my family." He was more than a little angry. Sure, he wanted to get Whistler back for betraying him, but locking him into the guestroom? Not only was it disrespectful, it was pointless. Whistler was the best lockpick in New York, probably the world.

"You never know with street rats. They have no morals," Mrs. Conlon said soothingly.

"More morals than some so-called _respectable_ folk," someone said. Spot and Mrs. Conlon looked over to the door. There stood Whistler, fully dressed and not pleased. "Spot, when you told me 'bout yer mum, you never said she was so suspicious that she'd lock guests in for the night."

"Believe me, Wiss, I had no idea."

"I'm not blamin' you, Spot," Whistler assured him, ignoring the nickname for the time being. He had a lot more than that coming, he reasoned, for giving Spot over to his family. "But I am leavin', and I'd appreciate if you came with me."

Spot looked to his mother. Then he nodded. Suddenly something occurred to him. "Say, Whistler. If you'se here, an' I'm here, who's in charge over in Brooklyn?"

"Exactly," Whistler said. "It all went to hell after you left, y'know. I never could get up on time, and half the guys slept in after waitin' up late for ya. They told me if I didn't come back with you, I wasn't to come back at all."

Mrs. Conlon looked like she was about to cry.

"Don't worry, Mother," Spot said. "I'll come back to visit sometimes. An' Emily's taken a likin' to Whistler."

"But—"

"Maybe I was happy here when I was nine, but I got a new life now," he explained. "I got a bunch of people dependin' on me." Whistler nodded.

"He'll come to visit at least once a week," Whistler assured her. "An' if he fergets, I'll remind him."

Mrs. Conlon sighed. "I suppose so."

"So—" Whistler said.

"So, what?" Spot asked.

"I suppose I got it comin' to me for knockin' you out."

Spot could hardly believe his ears. Was Whistler asking to be beaten up? He decided to play it safe and get more information before acting.

"Yah, y'sure do," he said.

"Well?" Whistler asked. "I don't like havin' loose ends flyin' around. I beat up on you, you get to beat up on me so we're even."

"Are you actually askin' me to hit you?"

Whistler nodded. "Won't fight back, either, since you didn't fight back when I hit you before."

Spot grinned evilly. "We got a lot of catchin' up to do."


	6. Chapter 6: The Plot Rethickens

This chapter is short. The next one will be longer, I promise.

* * *

Chapter 6: The Plot Re-thickens 

Whistler's bruises were completely gone in less than a week. They always were. Spot had long since given up trying to figure out how his second healed so fast. It was just one of the many mysteries that surrounded the being known as Whistler. Spot went over to Manhattan a few times a week to visit his family, re-aquainting himself with his father and older brother. Whistler would go with him sometimes, to tell Emily a story. It was just after one such visit that the trouble began in earnest.

Whistler and Spot were just coming up to the Brooklyn lodging house when a tall figure stepped out of an alley.

"Well, whaddaya know, it's the King a' Brooklyn," the figure drawled. "And who else next to him but his little storytellin' sidekick. How ya doin', boys?"

"Be a lot better when you skip on back to Queens, Deuce," Spot said. "This is my territory. You got no business here."

Deuce smiled. "Oh, but I'm afraid I do. See, Queens is gettin' too crowded for me an' my guys. I been thinkin' maybe it's time for the King of Brooklyn to step down in favour a' someone a little—" he glanced to the side as he searched for the right word "—_bigger_."

Whistler spat at Deuce's feet. "Shove off, Deuce. No one wants ye here."

"Make me," came Deuce's reply as he settled himself into a fighter's crouch.

Spot glanced at Whistler. The redhead nodded, then went at Deuce, bringing his left fist up toward Deuce's gut in his usual starting—and often finishing—move.

"Predictable," Deuce said as he blocked it with a meaty hand. He slapped Whistler hard across the face, sending the smaller boy reeling. "You're not worth my fists."

Whistler recovered and dove back into the fray, fists flying as he tried to land a hit on Deuce. A few punches landed, but most were blocked by the taller man's arms and fists.

"Spot—" Whistler began. Spot frowned, then pulled his gold-topped cane out its usual place in his suspenders. He rushed forward and swiped at Deuce's knees as Whistler jumped on their enemy's back as a distraction. It worked. Deuce shook himself, trying to dislodge the redheaded flea on his back, not noticing Spot until the younger boy had already knocked his legs out from under him. Whistler jumped clear as Deuce's large form fell to the ground, raising dust, then sat on the large man's stomach.

"Two on one—ain't fair—" Deuce panted.

"Since when did you ever play by the rules, Deuce?" Spot asked. "It was three on one when ya got Skipper, an' he was jus' a kid."

"Hey, that wasn' my idea!" Deuce said, trying to fib his way out of his predicament. "It was them that did it, I never ordered it!"

Whistler snorted. "I saw the whole thing, ye moron, I was jus' too far away t'do anythin'. I saw you clear as daylight pull a knife."

Deuce paled. "I swears I'll never come back here again if ya let me go this once," he said.

Spot nodded. Whistler got up off Deuce's chest and gave him a hand getting up.

"So help me," Whistler said. "'F you show up in Brooklyn one more time, I'll use my knife, not my fists. An' I don't need to be close to ya with a knife." Deuce nodded solemnly, then took off towards Queens.

"Think we've seen the end of him?" Whistler asked.

"Not a chance," Spot replied.


	7. Chapter 7: Don't Shoot the Messenger

Eep, another short chapter. Boots torture in this one. Nothing big, he just gets scared a little.

Chapter 7: Don't Shoot the Messenger

It wasn't until Spot and Whistler got back to the Brooklyn lodging house that they realized just how soon they'd be seeing Deuce again. Having taken the long way around, they arrived just as the sun was beginning to set. There, in the downstairs common room, was none other than Boots.

"Whatcha doin' here, Boots?" Spot asked, more than a bit worried. The young black newsie was notorious for his fear of Brooklyn and Spot. If Boots was in Brooklyn, it meant that there was trouble enough in Manhattan that Jack wasn't thinking clearly.

"Ya won' like this, Yer Majesty," Boots said. "Big trouble."

"Well, what is it?" said Spot. Boots looked around, obviously scared out of his wits.

"Yer ma an' yer little sister—" he began, then stopped.

"Spit it out, Boots."

"Deuce's thugs got 'em!" Boots cried. His mission completed, he covered his head with his hands and cowered. Whistler sat down next to him and patted him on the back.

"Don' worry, Boots," the older boy said. "Spot don't shoot the messenger, just the sender."

"It weren't Jack's fault!"

"Jack ain't the sender, Deuce is," Whistler explained. "If he hadn't kidnapped Spot's mum an' sister, there wouldn't a' been a message." He turned to Spot, who hadn't so much as twitched since Boots' first exclamation. "Right, Spot?"

The King of Brooklyn didn't even bat an eye. Instead, he grabbed Whistler's arm with one hand and Boots with the other, and dragged the two into the bunk room, tossing out the newsies playing a game of poker.

"Git yerselves downstairs," he growled at them. The four boys took one look at their leader's face and ran for their lives. Spot steered his prisoners over to his bunk and set them down, then sat across from them.

"Alright," he said quietly. "Boots, I want details. Whistler, make sure you remember everythin'."

Boots looked from one grim face to the other and started to cry.

"Dammit," Spot growled. "Pull yourself together before I pull you apart!"

Boots gave one last hiccup and began to talk.

"Well, at first we didn' know anythin' was wrong, see," he said. "You'd jus' left 'Hattan, an' Mrs. Conlon'd taken Emily to the park. Then some kid comes up an' says that he's from Spot an' he wants Mrs. Conlon an' Emily to come with him, cuz Spot wants to show 'em somethin'." Here Boots took a deep breath. "Jack tol' me to follow them, jus' ta make sure nuthin' happened, but then the kid brung them into an alley, an' I saw one a' Deuce's guys knock 'em over the head, first Mrs. Conlon, then Emily. Then Deuce's guy an' the kid took 'em off toward Queens."

Spot nodded. Whistler gave a long slow whistle. Boots looked like he might start to cry again. Finally Spot broke the uneasy silence.

"Alright," he began. "Boots, go on back to 'Hattan. Tell Jack I got it under control, an' to keep an eye on things in case Deuce decides to pull somethin' over there." He turned to Whistler. "You, get the guys together. I got a plan."


	8. Chapter 8: Double Dealing

Sorry 'bout the wait, guys (or girls rather, since I think I might be the only guy on Newsies Fanfic). I got my laptop confiscated because I slept in and missed first period. Full details are in my livejournal, just in case you care. Which I severely doubt.

Oh, and I apologize in advance for the cliff-hanger and double dealing, but believe me, everything's going according to plan.

* * *

Chapter 8: Double Dealing

News of the kidnapping and subsequent meeting spread fast, partly because of Whistler's efforts, partly because newsies are notorious for having and sharing information. In less than two hours, all the Brooklyn newsies had assembled in the common room of the lodging house, completely by word of mouth.

"I'm sure you all knows why you're here," Spot said after rapping his cane on a table for attention.

"To kill Deuce!" someone shouted. Spot gave the boy a stern look.

"Now, we newsies is supposed to be unified now, ever since the strike," Spot continued. "An' believe me, I'm as glad of the truce as any other guy. Saves me keepin' track of everyone's every move." A few newsies looked at each other, trying to figure out where Spot's speech was going. "However!" Everyone snapped back to attention. "Deuce has broken the truce. Not only has he attacked me, he's done it by attackin' non-newsies, specifically women an' children. Are we gonna let this go?"

The resounding "NO!" nearly shook the rafters.

"Are we Brooklyn?"

"YEAH!"

"Are we gonna win 'gainst those slimy toads in Queens?"

"HELL YEAH!"

"When do we march?" Whistler shouted from the back, fully aware of the answer.

"Dawn," Spot replied.

* * *

The morning of September 2, 1899 dawned warm and wet. A light drizzle fell from the sky as the army of Brooklyn marched on Queens. 

But someone was missing.

Skipper noticed it first. "Hey Knicknack," he said to the boy next to him. "Where's Whistler?"

Knicknack looked around, then shrugged. "Dunno. Come to think of it, don' think I seen him since last night at the meeting."

"Think Spot knows?" Skipper asked.

"'Course Spot knows. He's the leader."

"Eh, guess you're right—" But Skipper wasn't sure.

* * *

The individual in question scurried along back alleys and through buildings, taking the back route from Brooklyn to Queens. It was a little known route, commonly used only by the head honchos of Brooklyn and Queens. Most common newsies didn't even know it exsisted. 

"Who goes there?" came a hoarse whisper.

"Someone Deuce wants to see," Whistler whispered back.

"From Brooklyn?"

"Nah, from Whistler."

"C'mon in."

The door to the Queens lodging house opened to admit the newcomer, then immediately slammed behind him.

"So, whatcha hear?" the door keeper asked.

"Oh, this an' that," Whistler said offhand. "Spot's comin' with a small army to rescue his mum an' his sister."

The door keeper swore. "Knowed it were a bad idea to get non-combatants involved. Deuce's got 'em in the back room, scared ta death, poor things. Don't see why we couldn't a' got Brooklyn some other way."

"How they doin', other than bein' scared?"

"Th' dame keeps prayin' an' crossin' herself. The little girl seems alright, but she keeps askin' for ya."

"She's a smart kid," Whistler said. "Didn't take her long to figger out that I'm not really from Brooklyn."

The door keeper chuckled at this. "Y'didn't come jus' to chitchat, didja? You wanted t'talk to Deuce."

"Nah, not really. Jus' wanted to let ya know 'bout Brooklyn's plans an' to make sure the prisoners are alright. There a poker game on yet?"

"Y'er always ready to play, ain'tcha Whistler?" the door keeper said with a smile. "Nah, no poker game yet."

"You up to get your arse kicked at Nine Man's Morris, then?"

"Sure, why not," the door keeper returned. "Maybe this time I'll finally beat you."

* * *

Not far away, Spot smiled as he readied his slingshot. 


	9. Chapter 9: Keys

Hehe, Whistler's such a good actor. Everything should come clear in this chapter, and I can only hope that I'll manage to convince Silky.

Chapter 9: Keys

All was prepared. Spot grinned as he glanced over his deployed troops, making doubly certain that everyone was where he was supposed to be. Two groups of five each waited on nearby fire escapes with slingshots in case the fight got out of hand, while Spot and the main body of the army stood ready to charge, twenty boys in all. Each carried the weapon of his choice, be it a knife, ready fists, slingshot, or—in Spot's case—gold topped cane.

"First slingshots, ready!" Spot called. The marksmen not in fire escapes aimed carefully at the door of the Queens lodging house.

"FIRE!" Ten or so assorted rocks, marbles and bits of whatever was at hand flew through the air, hitting the building.

"Hey, what the hell do you think you're doin' out there?" someone shouted from inside.

"Takin' back what's mine," Spot yelled back. "Fire at will, boys!"

* * *

Meanwhile, Whistler had won the Nine Man's Morris game against the door keeper and was concentrating on staying away from the windows as a steady barrage of debris clattered against the glass. Now was the delicate portion of his mission. To steer clear of the Queens boys long enough to get the prisoners out the back way and back to Brooklyn. 

"Git your lazy asses out there an' fight back, ya bums!" Deuce shouted. Whistler concentrated on being inconspicuous as he fought the crowd heading toward the door. Suddenly he found himself not moving, a hand on the back of his collar.

"You!" the owner of the hand shouted. "What the hell are ya doin' goin' that way? Git up t'the front!"

"Ya moron!" Whistler shouted back, thinking fast. "'F Spot sees me, I'm done for an' you lose a spy!"

Deuce frowned a moment, trying to figure out what his prisoner had said. "Then git in back where no one kin see ya," he ordered.

"Gladly," Whistler said, saluting. "I'll go make sure no one sneaks the prisoners out while you all're out front."

"Yah, go guard the prisoners," Deuce said, nodding. He turned to the rest of the Queens boys who were hanging around the door. "Whatcha waitin' for? Git out there!"

* * *

"Slingshots down, weapons up!" Spot yelled as the lodging house door opened. Some twenty-odd boys came boiling out, followed by Deuce who was urging them on. The Brooklynites came forward to meet them. 

For about two minutes, all was chaos. Spot laid about with his cane, hitting whatever he could reach that looked unfamiliar. He privately thanked whoever was listening that he had had his boys wear a bit of blue cloth tied around their arms. Otherwise there might have been serious injuries from friendly fire, and the King of Brooklyn wouldn't stand for that.

* * *

Meanwhile, Whistler was having problems of his own. It seemed that the door keeper had been mistaken in saying thatMrs. Conlon and Emilywere in the back room, unless Deuce had figured out how to make them invisible. Whistler severely doubted this, and so began his search, cursing the entire time. After all, he couldn't be sure how long Spot's diversion up front would last. 

After nearly two minutes of knocking on doors and shouting for Emily and Mrs. Conlon, he came across a locked door.

"Hah," he muttered as he fished his lockpicks out of the pocket of his trousers. The lock was open in seconds and Whistler was taking the stairs two at a time as he went down to the basement.

* * *

It seemed that Brooklyn was winning. Deuce had long since abandoned the fight for the safety of the lodging house, leaving his boys to their fate at the hands of the irate Brooklynites. No quarter was given.

* * *

The basement of the Queens lodging house was nearly pitch black save for a soft glow from under yet another door. This one was locked as well, but this presented no problem for Whistler and his skills. He threw the door open to reveal Mrs. Conlon-- dirty, tired, and clutching a sleeping Emily. 

"Hey, 'member me?" Whistler said. "I'm Spot-- I mean,Patrick's second.He sent me to get you outta here."

"Why should I trust you?" Mrs. Conlon asked. "The last time someone said they'd come on Patrick's orders they turned out to be lying."

Whistler shrugged. "I suppose you're right. 'Cept for one thing." He pulled something on a shoestring out of his pocket and handed it to Mrs. Conlon. "Your son don't take this off for anythin', an' anyone tryin' to steal it'll find themselves in a lota' pain. He gave it t'me to show you."

Mrs. Conlon examined the small object. It was a key, the same key that she'd noticed around her son's neck.

"Patrick's outside, makin'some noise so I can get you and Emily back to Brooklyn. I'm not sure how long he'll be able to keep them busy."

Mrs. Conlon nodded. "I trust you," she said.


	10. Chapter 10: Deuce's Comeuppance

Sorry 'bout the wait guys. This happened, and that happened, and I slept in, and my mum's a nut... I'll stop babbling now, since no one really cares. Big thank yous out to everybody who reviewed, and welcome to Doctor of Writing and Queen of Doom. And keep your pants on, Ginny.

* * *

Chapter 10: Deuce's Comeuppance

"Good," Whistler said. He grabbed Mrs. Conlon's hand and started back up the stairs, listening for the sounds of the fight outside. It seemed eerily quiet, and Whistler hoped that Spot and the rest of the gang were okay. Maybe the walls were muffling the sound.

"Is Patrick all right?" Mrs. Conlon asked as they reached the top of the stairs.

"Shh, I'm tryin' 'a listen," Whistler whispered.

* * *

Upstairs, the fight had taken a turn for the worse. One of the Queens boys had managed to escape the carnage and had gone to get the police. The bulls had shown up in record time and immediately began arresting everyone in sight. 

"Halt!" Spot shouted. This was the signal for the slingers on the fire escapes to ready their weapons. Needless to say, it was also the signal for the Brooklyn boys to take cover. The puzzled policemen found themselves under fire. Whistles blowing, they retreated.

* * *

Whistler nodded to himself as he heard the police whistles. He wasn't sure whether the bulls were coming or going, so he decided to take Mrs. Conlon and Emily out the back way. A small door in the back of a closet led out to an alleyway where the three fugitives scurried, Mrs. Conlon carrying Emily. The alley opened up into a the courtyard between the lodging house and the tenement behind it. Whistler led his charges through the tenement and out to the street beyond, and on over the border back to Brooklyn.

* * *

"Get 'im outta there!" Spot ordered. Deuce was brought before him, hands tied behind him. Spot looked at him with an expression of purest disgust. 

"Well, you got anythin' to say for yerself?" the victor asked.

Deuce gulped and shook his head.

"Y'know, I've had more'n a few enemies during my reign, but I don' think I ever had one as spineless as you." Spot spat in the prisoner's face and looked around at the remaining Brooklynites, who were lounging around in the street in front of the lodging house. There were a few bruises here and there and a broken bone or two. Nothing major. "So whaddaya reckon we should do with him, boys?" Spot asked them.

"Well, we already soaked his guys," Skipper piped up. "I vote we soak _him_, since he didn't do nuthin'." This was followed by a chorus of "Hell yeah!" and "Soak 'im!" from several quarters.

"Shouldn't we wait for Whistler to show up?" Knicknack interrupted.A fewpeople groaned, but were silenced by a glare from Spot.

"Whistler's on a special mission from yours truly," Spot said. "He'll have his fun when he gets back."

* * *

"Well, Mrs. Conlon, it's been lovely visitin', but I'm afraid I must walk you and the little one home," said Whistler with great aplomb. Mrs. Conlon laughed. Emily began to cry. "Don' cry, Emmy," Whistler told her. "Tell ya what, I'll tell y'a story on the way over to 'Hattan, a'right?" A smile shone through the tears. Whistler grinned and set the girl on his shoulders. 

"A story about a princess, right?"

"That's right, Emmy, a story about a princess. Her name was Janet, and she had yellow hair--" Whistler began to tell a somewhat altered version of the Scottish ballad "Tam Lin". Emily didn't need to know about Janet getting pregnant by Tam Lin in the rose bushes, or Tam Lin's habit of accosting young girls and taking their maidenhead.

* * *

It was growing dark by the time Whistler arrived back at the Queens lodging house where he was supposed to meet up with Spot and the rest of the gang. He found Deuce trussed up like a stuffed pig near the door, and a poker game in full swing in the common room. 

"Deal me in?" Whistler asked, grabbing a chair. Someone dealt him a hand. "So anybody got an idea a' what to do with yon doorstop?"

"There's been a motion to soak 'im," Spot said, examining his cards. "I been makin' 'em wait till you got back."

"So we jus' gonna beat 'im up?"

"S'pose so."

"I got a better idea, how 'bout we chuck 'im in the river?" The suggestion was met with approval. The poker game was abandoned as the Brooklynites paraded down to the docks, the still handicapped Deuce carried by two of the larger boys. Whistler struck up a tune and soon nearly everyone was singing "Camp Town Ladies" for no apparent reason.

_The camp town ladies sing this song  
Doo-dah, doo-dah  
Camp town track is five miles long  
All the doo-dah day  
Came down here with m'hat caved in  
Doo-dah, doo-dah  
Go back home with a pocket full a' tin  
Oh, the doo-dah day_

_Gonna run all night  
Gonna run all day  
I bet my money on the bobtailed nag  
Somebody bet on the bay_

With great jubilation, the small crowd jostled the babbling prisoner over the edge and watched the splash.

"What's next, Spot?" Whistler asked with a grin, knowing full well what Spot was going to say.

"Now we party!"


	11. Epilogue

Okay, folks. It's been grand writing this story and even better getting all these reviews. Hell, I've even made a friend. Yep, that's you, Ginny.

Anyway, what I want to say, is that the story's over for now, but a sequel isn't completely out of the question. Plus, I'll be restarting Call Me Whistler. So, even though A Key Round His Neck may be over, there'll still be lots of writing from yours truly. Heh, like I'd stop writing just because I finished something. Silly, silly

* * *

Epilogue 

"I propose a toast to the new King a' Queens!" Spot said, raising his full mug of beer.

"Hear hear!" came shouts from every corner of the room. Whistler was pushed up to the front of the room, blushing furiously. He, too, was holding a beer, although some of it had spilled down the front of his shirt after hearing Spot's pronouncment.

"But Spot, y'know I don' wanna be a leader!" he protested.

"Well, tough," Spot returned. Several people laughed. "Somebody's gotta take care a' Queens, and you'se the best man for the job."

"But those Queens boys, they'll cream me for switchin' sides."

"Y'didn't switch sides—"

"They think I did," Whistler pointed out. Spot considered this.

"True," the younger boy said. "But you'se famous as the only guy who can beat up Spot Conlon. No way you'se scared of a couple a' bums."

Spot's admission and challenge hit a nerve with the redhead.

"I ain' scared a' nuthin', Spot," Whistler said dangerously. "Nuthin', y'hear me?"

Spot smiled. "Then here's to the new King a' Queens!" Whistler shut his eyes and nodded, then raised his own beer.

"BROOKLYN!" he yelled, then knocked back the entire mug in one swig.

"BROOKLYN!" the cry shook the rafters.


End file.
